


one last indulgence.

by ohyellowbird



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-18 03:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: She is leaning out over the rail for a tankard when a voice at her back sends it spinning out of reach.“Ain’t it past your bedtime, darlin’?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> howdy! i loved this movie and ship vasquez/faraday but also i just really want faraday going down on people. so here's this drabbley piece of trash. :)

The men have all drifted upstairs by the time Emma returns from the river. They’ll have only a few hours rest before the morning arrives, and with it, war. She sweeps through the empty saloon and gathers glasses for the barkeep, an act of assured futility—the entire town may be reduced to kindling if Bogue prevails—but the simple act of it settles her.

Once the tables have been cleared and chairs pushed in, she draws open the backdoor to recover any bottles from the porch. 

Two low-burning oil lamps are all that light up the dark. 

Emma is leaning out over the railing for a stray tankard when a voice at her back sends it spinning out of reach.

“Ain’t it past your bedtime, darlin’?”

She spins with an indignant huff fast enough to watch the slow climb of Faraday’s stare from where she’d been halfway over the rail and up to her face. He’s sat just next to the door, legs out straight and leaning against the back brim of his hat.

“Mr. Faraday,” she tuts in greeting, catching her breath, “Shouldn’t _you_ be resting as well? For tomorrow.”

His gaze is bleary but not overly so despite the flask in his hand being empty. “Figure I’ll have plenty of time to sleep soon enough.”

And that makes her flinch, but before the sting of responsibility for leading these men to an impossible fight can overwhelm, he’s speaking again.

“Was that you I heard splashing around down on the banks, Miss Emma?” he asks, squinting, “You smell nice.”

Her cheeks pinken but it can’t be hardly discernible in the low light. “It was,” she says, absently feeling over the damp hairline near her nape, “One last indulgence. I didn’t disturb you, did I?”

Faraday chuckles, reaches out one filthy hand and beckons her closer. “What is that, olive oil and lavender?” and she nods, drawn nearer, careful to step around him. He breathes in deep like he’s smoking one of those cigarillos and sighs, hand dropping down, fingers bending in around her ankle.

She startles, but only a little, and for a number of reasons. Emma’s eyes snap to Faraday’s and he’s watching her, gauging her reaction and when she doesn’t slap him, he grins. A roughened thumb plucks at the jut of her anklebone, gentle, exploratory.

“Tonight might be it for us, Miss Emma,” he starts, and she figures that he’s more to say because his grip eases slowly north, “For every one of us. And odds are I won’t ever have a proper shot at this, you and me.”

It’s presumptive and he knows it, sets down the flask he’d been hanging onto and turns his body more fully towards her, looking determined. “So with that said, I’d like to taste you.”

Emma sputters, steps out of his reach and readies a tongue lashing about mourning and decency but it all falls away in the silence and in his lack of efforts to grab her again. And when the shock of his boldness passes, she finds herself calm. “Is that how you speak to a lady?” she asks, only halfway as upset as she has a right to be.

Faraday laughs without shame, “I ain’t no saint,” and turns a cheek in offering. But Emma doesn’t slap him. She fills her lungs and without any sense in her head, steps back into his space--he's right after all: tonight might be it. The action produces a crease between Faraday’s brows and a questioning look, but he isn’t a man to waste time. Shuffling, he eagerly repositions himself on one knee, removes his hat, and clamps both hands around her waist. The pressure from his fingers against the dimples of her back alone is enough to have her vision swimming.

“Now what, what did you mean when you said…” she stutters quietly, and Faraday’s answering laugh is low, predatory. His one hand keeps her while the other gathers her skirts, dipping below them to trace the length of her leg. He goes slowly, and he keeps eyes on her face to parse out any speck of hesitancy. Underneath the scrutiny of his stare she has the sudden urge to tell him how insufferably handsome he is but refrains, silently committing his features to memory instead.

Then his hand isn’t on Emma’s leg anymore. It’s between them, fingers skimming along her slit without more preamble than he’s given. She steadies herself on his shoulder and sighs, mouth falling open when he teases her more ardently. And then in one quick move he hauls her up tight against him and disappears beneath the layers of her skirt.

His mouth lands first at the inside of one thigh, hands cradling her hips, keeping her trapped up against the warmth of his tongue. Any thoughts of her late Matthew and of the coming day are extinguished by the feel of wet breath creeping up and by Faraday’s quiet chuckle. He presses his smile right up against her, noses at her curls and after what feels like a millennia, gently probes her cunt with his tongue.

“Joshua--” Emma chokes out, nails biting into the meat of his shoulder, and he begins then to lap at her with a slow-building insistency. easing a finger inside when she begins babbling in whispers and lifts her skirts enough to grip onto his hair. “Like a sweet peach,” he remarks off-handedly, as though confirming a hypothesis, and she feels every syllable.

A few more minutes of Faraday’s magic and she is quaking into mindlessness, the world gone technicolored. He resurfaces after, red-faced and still grinning, his mouth slick, hair wild. She lets him loose and staggers back against the rail, both hands out to support herself but then he’s there, keeping her balanced.

When the buzz he’s conjured within her passes, she deserves to be flooded with guilt and heartache, but it doesn’t come. Not that it won’t. But perhaps it can wait until tomorrow, when this is all over, when the town Matthew died defending is safe.

“Thank you,” Faraday says then, breaking her away from her thoughts, “for one last indulgence,” and there’s nothing for it but to kiss him.

 

When morning comes and goes and the dust has settled, when they’ve won and yet had to put up four wooden crosses, and when one of the markers is for Joshua Faraday, Emma can’t find it in herself to feel one drop of guilt. But heartache, that she’s got in buckets.


End file.
